There Must Be Real Gods See, The

Writing. Love Is Writing.

No One Knows The Colour Of A Flower Till It Is Broken.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

The Things I Have Are Nameless, Old And True; They May Not Be Named; Few May Live And Know.

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.